


The Object of His Fascination

by WhenBachDropsTheBeat



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2019-02-13 19:18:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12990783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhenBachDropsTheBeat/pseuds/WhenBachDropsTheBeat
Summary: Porthos gets drunk.





	The Object of His Fascination

**Author's Note:**

> The ride home from the war was not a happy one for Porthos (in this 'off-center' universe of mine). Just a late night rumination, really. Inspired, in part, by Dumas' LOL-description of Aramis' ear... There is little art to this and even less editing (kind of a trademark, actually), because it is late here. So very, very late. :-/

The floor boards seemed to be moving beneath his bare feet. Where were his boots, Porthos wondered woozily. He had a vague recollection of a struggle at a doorway.

Had he won?

Apparently not. He was bootless, shirtless and naked down to his smalls.

He turned to look back at where he assumed the door was in this dim room, lit only by the red, glowing embers of a dying fire in the grate. The room tilted and spun, so Porthos abandoned his search for the door - and his clothes.

 How he got near naked was going to have to be a discovery for another time, he decided. The answers would have to wait until this damnable room stopped moving around him.

He stood, feet planted apart and hands held unsteadily away from his body as if he could control the spin and tilt of the world around him with mere gestures. He squeezed his dark eyes shut and breathed deeply and heavily through his nose.

Why was he here? 

He remembered he had been riding back to Paris. He was alive. He was a war hero. He was returning home. 

Four years of blood, death, terror and frustration - behind him. 

And four years of heartache and feelings of abandonment - riding with him.

Paris was still two days away and the annoyance at having to stop for food and sleep seemed as foolish as it was necessary. Porthos was so irritated and unaccountably grumpy that he had headed for the tavern and the gaming tables as soon as the horses had been stabled for the night.

He remembered thinking only that he was long overdue for some drinking and whoring. His eyes popped open. He had succeeded admirably in the drinking task.

His blurry eyes took in the unfamiliar room again. 

Perhaps he was here to succeed in _both_ of the tasks he had set for himself this evening? A small, crooked grin crept over his face as he spied the Object of His Fascination in a bed at the far wall.

Ah. That was why he was here.

He lurched forward and dropped to his knees at the bedside. Pulling gently at the corner of a blanket that glowed pink in the fading firelight, he uncovered a mop of curls unsuccessfully held in order by a length of black ribbon.

Porthos smiled and tugged at the ribbon, freeing the last of the captured tresses, which seemed damp and smelled wonderful.

The big musketeer buried his nose in the dark locks and took in a deep noisy breath, even as their owner rolled around from under the warm covers and cast one long-lashed, ebony eye sleepily at the intruder.

“Porthos? What...? What are you doing?”

Porthos purred with delight as he tugged at one damp lock and watched it spring back over a fine, but furrowed, brow. “You,” he growled and buried his nose in the now-exposed smooth flesh of shoulder and neck. “You always smell so... Mmmmm. Sandalwood. Cinnamon. Roses. How’d ya do it?” His words were slurred but full of affection and wonder.

“Bathing, Porthos. It’s called a bath. For the love of God...” 

The sharp whisper that answered was _not_ from the Object of His Fascination. It was deep, irritated and alarmingly close. Porthos raised his head - too quickly - and was startled to see a movement in the heap of covers on the other side of the bed. 

Astonished, he was forced to sit heavily on his backside to steady himself. Who else was here, he wondered again with deepening consternation.

A short explosive burst of giggles seemed to come from somewhere behind him, so Porthos swung his head around to see where the commotion had come from. 

He thought they were alone. What kind of set-up was this?

The room spun mercilessly. He groaned, pulled himself back up to the bedside and dropped his head back onto that warm, fragrant shoulder. 

Ignore the noises, he told himself grumpily. 

He was right where he wanted to be, he told himself.  

And sighed happily.

“Porthos. You’re drunk, mon cher.” This time it was the soft, dulcet voice of the Object of His Fascination. It seemed full of concern.

He smiled crookedly as he lifted his head to look into the beautiful pair of ebony eyes which were watching him warily. He reached for one finely sculpted ear and drew his finger slowly along its edge, still warm from the bedcovers. “Yer ear,” he cooed. “It’s like... It’s like a seashell. A delicate pink seashell.”

The mysterious giggles now erupted into fully formed guffaws, abruptly smothered when Porthos turned again to see their source.

The Object of His Fascination sighed heavily, drawing his attention back to the bed. “Porthos, please. I think you should go to bed. It’s very late and you are very, very drunk. I hope and pray you will remember nothing of this in the morning.”

“He may not, but I will!” said a muffled but delighted voice from the other side of the room. “Delicate pink shell!” Chortled the muffled voice merrily.

What the hell...? Who was in here?

There was another beleaguered sigh from the Object of His Fascination. 

“What?” Porthos sputtered. “I can’t ‘elp it - Ya move a man to poetry, ya do.”

“I will be forced to ‘ _move a man_ ’ to the _street_ if you don’t get into your damned bed and shut up!” bellowed the Voice From The Other Side.

“Hey! Who’s that beside ya? Who shares yer bed?”

“Shhhh. Quietly, Big Man, quietly. This isn’t my bed, I must remind you, and the other occupant is sleeping.”

“Wrong. So very, very wrong. I am _definitely_ not sleeping!”

The mound of bedclothes erupted and a naked, irritated Athos loomed over the big drunken soldier.

“Athos?”

“That’s _Captain_ Athos to you, brother, and I _order_ you to go to bed, goddamit!” The angry man strode past his confused brother at the bedside.

So, the Voice from the Other Side was identified. Now, who did all the giggles and guffaws belong to?

“d’Artangnan!” Athos shouted as he stood imperiously over the other bed in the room.

Porthos smirked. Question answered.

 “Move your ass over!” Athos was barking orders as if they were on the battlefield again. “- and when I say OVER, I mean you will surrender three-quarters of that bed to me, and you will do so without another giggle, laugh, snort, or commentary until day breaks through that window! Is that understood?”

“Yessir.” The answering voice of his youngest brother was still muffled but full of contriteness now. Porthos could hear the creak and groan of the other bed in the room as the storm that was Brother-Captain Athos settled in to repair the interruption in his night of sleep.

Or so he thought. 

In just a short moment he heard Athos’ growl: “Stop jiggling the bed.”

“I-I can’t...,” came d’Artagnan’s nearly breathless voice in the shadows. “I can’t stop laughing.”

“There is a cure for that. Smothering.” Athos’ voice sounded matter-of-fact, but it was heavy with threat.

The silence that followed was complete. Porthos sat, blinking into that dark corner, wondering drunkenly what had just happened. The fire had finally faded out. He could feel the chill in the room settling on him. He started shivering. 

He felt confused, unable to sort the evening’s events out in his head. He couldn’t even sort the events of the last week out. When the memories of the monastery threatened, he pushed them away. Hell! That’s why he went to the tavern in the first place, wasn’t it?

He sat, unmoving, in the quiet and the cold, fighting feelings of deepening loneliness and sadness. He felt a warm hand on his cooling flesh. 

The Object of his Fascination. 

Still here - in his spinning, tilting world.

“Porthos,” the soft voice whispered. “Come. Get under the covers. You’re getting cold.”

He rolled into the warm bed and was grateful for the weight of heavy blankets that were being pulled over and tucked around him. He hoped sleep would come sooner than the headache that was already threatening. He slid his arms around the Object of His Fascination.

He was right where he wanted to be, he told himself.  

And sighed happily.

**************************


End file.
